


on the nature of daylight.

by courage_of_stars



Category: Inception (2010), Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Derogatory Language, Dreamsharing, Emotional Sex, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Romance, Self-Harm, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courage_of_stars/pseuds/courage_of_stars
Summary: "I'm terrified of us. Just like how I'm fucking terrified of hotel rooms too many stories high, and bathrooms with broken locks--"Arthur stops. He can't reveal anymore fears: baseball fields, amber shampoo bottles, polaroid cameras, rainbow cereal, a boy named Neil, forgetting the color of Mal's eyes, and the harsh realization that maybe love isn't enough.---(Arthur always leaves first. One night, Eames asks why.)
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	on the nature of daylight.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: trauma, mental health, past rape/noncon, past child abuse, past underage, derogatory language, implied/reference suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm, canonical character death, violence, NSFW
> 
>  ****Please read the tags/warnings. Your safety and well-being are most important.** No explicit details about past abuse / underage / noncon. However this story dives deep into the aftermath of traumatic experiences (including the bathroom scene from Mysterious Skin.) Please stay safe.

"I love you."

Maybe it would be easier if those three words were a lie. But Arthur's never been one to say something he doesn't mean. The man would rather choose silence.

"I love you."

Cinema. Literature. Music. Theater. Countless forms of human expression declare those three words as something kind and beautiful. Love finds its way even into the field of science. Carl Sagan speaks about the infinite vastness of the universe, and how the void only grows tolerable through love.

"I love you."

Three words. Eight letters. One confession Eames has only dreamt of hearing. Perhaps as a whisper. Sometimes, Eames' subconscious takes a shot at being compassionate. But it only ends up being cruel by fabricating a projection of Arthur.

In his dreams, Arthur stays.

"I love you, Eames."

In reality, Arthur whispers those words on his way out the door. Always leaving before the sun breaks over the horizon line. Chasing after the last remnants of fading nightfall. Arthur feels ephemeral as the slivers of time between night and day. It's those fleeting moments when pale, almost colorless turquoise washes over the city.

Only evidence of Arthur being more than a nightly specter are scarlet blemishes, rouge lines, and indigo fingerprints. Somedays, Eames discovers a massacre of love bites on his inner thighs. These marks hold more presence than the man who creates them.

Eames wonders what Arthur thinks, what Arthur feels when fabric causes soft friction against marks Eames left on him. A button down shirt caressing constellations in fading crimson. A tailored trouser leg brushing across a blossomed field of hickeys.

It's uncertain if Arthur knows the Forger pretends to be asleep. When Arthur's so frighteningly perceptive, there's a good chance he sees through the farce. Or maybe Arthur falls for Eames playing dead. Yet another question left unanswered. Eames has died over a million times in dreams. He should be used to death.

The closing door sinks a crater into Eames' chest. Neutral gray curtains blur from tired tears. He learns there are ways to die while still breathing.

* * *

"He loves you, Arthur."

"I know."

There's a weariness to Arthur's voice that's always under lock and key. Vulnerability has no place in the Point Man's professional life. But when the facade falls, Arthur feels that albatross around his neck swallow stones. Perpetual exhaustion only grows heavier with time. Fatigue weighs down on his soul like a reminder for atonement. Or at least, forgiveness. But none of that is within reach.

Arthur sits on the ground with a leg drawn, and an arm upon his knee. Clothes brush against the thriving garden of marks left by Eames. Little solar flares flicker to life. Arthur's heart leaps in joy, then stabs itself in guilt. Every time Arthur leaves in the morning, a rib bone punctures his lungs. The subtle shift in Eames' breathing doesn't only reveal that he's awake. It hints at Eames fighting not to cry.

Maybe Arthur never should have said, _'I love you,'_ after the first night. Or the second or twelfth or god knows how many nights they've been together. As Arthur readjusts his leg, the fingerprint bruises on his hips sing lovingly. It's tempting to press his fingers over those marks.

Instead Arthur counts the squares below him. The bathroom tiles are unforgivingly cold and rigid. Rust gathers at the edges of dials above the bathtub faucet. A moss green towel hangs on the rack. Stray strings hang loosely from threadbare edges. The faded, thin fabric's about to slip off. Everything appears relatively clean, because there's not much here at all. It's almost excruciatingly mundane.

This place bears little resemblance to other bathrooms from Arthur's adolescence. No countertops overflowing with questionably acquired pill bottles. No glimpses of needles in trash bins. No lingering scent of hard liquor. Arthur only observed. Never touched. Never asked about people's ghosts, demons and vices.

This is the cleanest bathroom of them all.

Without turning his gaze, Arthur knows what rests on the opposite bathtub ledge. 

A plastic bottle of honey amber shampoo. Topped off with a dark violet lid.

Despite the intensive Architect training given by Cobb and Mal, followed by more tips from Ariadne-- Arthur can't change a damned thing about this bathroom. Maybe it's like the hotel room in Cobb's mind. A wreckage of destruction. Arthur assumes Cobb has tried cleaning up the mess. Or even decimating the place all together. But like how Cobb can't sweep up the broken glass, Arthur can't throw out the shampoo bottle, or change the silver hook lock.

The hand running through his hair almost lulls Arthur to sleep. But Arthur has to keep his eyes open. When his eyes close, tears threaten to surface. Arthur never wants to cry in front of her.

Mal sits on the bathtub's ledge. Arthur leans his head against her thigh. With one hand caressing Arthur's shoulder, Mal's other hand cards through his undone hair. Cobb's mind creates projections of Mal in dark colors-- deep burgundy, midnight navy, glacier black.

Arthur remembers her in lighter hues.

Today, Mal wears a soft periwinkle shirt over faded blue jeans. Wildflowers of dried paint stain the sleeves. Stardust scatters across the denim. Arthur's eyes trace along a sliver of goldenrod yellow.

It matches the starry night ceiling in Phillipa's and James' playroom. In the spirit of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel, Mal builds a scaffold tower. She teaches Arthur how to design and construct something from scratch. Cobb's hand is inhumanly steadfast as he paints thin lines to connect constellations. He teaches Arthur how to position his arm, and what angle to hold the brush.

During Arthur's last visit, the room's grown into a library and art studio. Phillipa shows Arthur the flower petals pressed between pages of her favorite books. Arthur braids her hair as he's done for his mother, Wendy, Mal and Ariadne. While Phillipa teaches Arthur about floriography, James sits with Eames, and asks what color he should paint his mother's dress this time. In the drawings and paintings on the walls, Mal always smiles.

Arthur turns his head, so he can see the color of Mal's eyes. It's never simply blue. It may be vivid ultramarine. Or steel Turkish blue. Or a thousand other shades that haven't been named yet. No matter what color Mal's eyes are today, Arthur doesn't want to forget.

In the corner of his weary stare, Arthur sees a glimpse of dull silver. The bathroom door's hook lock. Flimsy. Feeble. Fragile. Waiting to be broken apart.

Softly, Mal asks, "How do you feel about Eames loving you?"

"Scared."

"Why?"

"He loves me-- for now. But once he knows about _this-_ " Arthur waves at the bathroom. Subconsciously, his fingers brush over his left temple. Callouses run over the ghost of a scar. "How can he still love me?"

"Oh, Arthur-"

A sudden bang on the door cuts Mal off. Tension grips Arthur by the throat. Organs implode one by one. The fist hammers to a rapid fire rhythm. Intense force driving the clenched hand shakes the door. A mad, rabid dog barks abhorrent words. One derogatory word stands out above all.

_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me._

If so, then why does that four-lettered word lacerate Arthur's body mercilessly? Even when Arthur hears it while awake, why does every survival instinct kick into high gear? Even when the word isn't aimed at Arthur, why does his chest throttle with the impact of a gunshot wound?

How the fuck can someone who's not in his life still haunt him?

How can they be inside of him at all?

In tandem with fear and anxiety, Arthur's breathing escalates. Darkness bites at the edges of his vision. Tunnel vision kicks in while a panic attack's right around the corner. Arthur knows who it is. The prowling beast never changes.

What happens when the monster gets inside never changes either.

"Mal, I'm so sorry." Arthur's voice splinters under the harrowing weight of guilt. Tears balance on the edge of his eyes. "This isn't where I want to keep meeting you."

As the beast snarls the same word over and over, a knife jams between the door and frame. The blade catches under the silver hook lock. Staring at the glinting knife, cold terror fissures through Arthur's veins.

But nothing cuts deeper than hopelessness.

In the past, Arthur scrambles to move away from the door. Frantic eyes seek a way out. There's not even a small window to punch a fist through, and climb out of. He only gets far as his back hitting the sink's edge.

The knife jostles the lock violently. It takes on a life of its own. Slithering, hissing like a lethal viper. In the gap between the door and its frame, a deranged eye stares at Arthur. Dilated. Feral. Starving.

Even when his vision blurs with tears, Arthur can't look away. "I'm sorry."

"No, sweetheart." Mal wraps her arms around Arthur. "I'm sorry you had to go through this at all. You never deserved it."

The lock breaks.

The door swings open.

Arthur shoots Mal, then shoots himself.

* * *

He wakes up with throes pounding in his skull. As the pain fades, Arthur wishes for it to stay. He'd rather take the sensation of a bullet rupturing his brain than the searing fire below his waist. Between his legs. A vicious ache splits open Arthur's head. Not from the Kick's gunshot. But from the shampoo bottle.

The Kick fades. Eventually.

But what haunts Arthur always stays.

Arthur can extract a PASIV needle seamlessly. Quick. Clean. Painless. That's what the Point Man does for anyone he works with.

But when Arthur's skin crawls too much, and he still feels the monster inside of him-- Arthur rips the syringe out. White lightning lances across his arm. Gritting his teeth, Arthur breathes heavily. The man focuses on measuring each inhale and exhale.

Inflicting physical pain to exorcise a demon never works. At best, it only serves as a distraction. Arthur doesn't even know how much of his soul is left. It may have washed away in the bathtub where a boy was choking on a pool of water, blood, and shampoo.

In silence, Arthur packs up the PASIV machine. Echoes of the bathroom ring in his ears. The man cleans the red rivulets, and treats his arm.

He feels nothing. 

* * *

Lips brush across the scar on his temple. Fear jolts Arthur from the inside out. His face drains of all color. Brutal shockwaves raze across his body. Lungs wither from refusal to take in air.

Only a moment later does Arthur realize his hands rest on Eames' chest. He's put distance between them. Panting raggedly, Arthur lifts his gaze from the man's torso. Eames stares at him with shock, concern, and swiftly rising guilt.

"Arthur, I'm sor-"

"No. Don't." Arthur rest his fingers over the man's lips. It takes tremendous effort to regain some semblance of calm. Arthur shakes his head. "It's not your fault."

An insidious tremor climbs up Arthur's arm. Once it reaches his fingertips, Arthur blinks back tears. Paralyzing self-loathing steals his voice. This is beyond digging his own grave. This is pulling the stones out of that albatross, swallowing them himself, and jumping into the ocean.

Breathlessly, Arthur whispers, "I'm sorry." His hand withdraws from Eames to hover over his own eyes. "I'm so sorry." Arthur refuses to acknowledge the heat from traitorous tears. "Eames--"

Arthur has no right to call out for Eames' name. Not when Arthur gives an avalanche of love, then leaves. Runs away. Slips his clothes on before sunrise, and walks right out the door. All while knowing that Eames is awake.

"Darling." Eames wipes away a stray tear. "Can I hold you?"

After a moment of tense silence, Arthur collapses inside his own body. He nods. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur, and holds him close. Arthur buries his face into Eames' neck. There's an apology on the tip of Arthur's tongue. Surely, it must hurt when Arthur holds on so tightly.

But Eames only runs a hand through Arthur's dark hair. He's even kind enough to not comment on the strained sobs. Or the signs of another injury on Arthur's arm. Eames helps drape the blankets over their bare bodies, so Arthur stays warm. He wipes away more tears with his lips and hands.

Somewhere between quiet sobs and shaky exhales, Arthur says, "I love you."

Eames never says it back. And that's okay. Arthur doesn't know what he'd do if Eames returns those words.

They hold each other through the night.

* * *

The faucet runs. The shower runs. Water darkens the light-colored hues of Mal's clothes. Rose gold melts into deep burgundy. Light beige dulls into graveyard dirt. Mal's collapsed in the bathroom like a marionette with snapped strings. Even though she's a projection, and there's already a bullet between her brows, Arthur tries to position her kindly. Arthur's hand passes over Mal's face to shut her lifeless eyes.

He turns off the shower water. Or tries to. But no matter how many times Arthur turns the dial, the water keeps falling. The Point Man already has a sense it's the same with the running sink.

The shampoo bottle remains undisturbed.

Arthur stands up. "What the Hell, Cobb." His tone falls so flat that it's not even a question.

Cobb stands behind Arthur. The cramped bathroom feels even smaller with all three of them. Cobb sets his gun away. "That's what I should be asking you. I-" Cobb stares at the projection in the bathtub. Then at his best friend's back. "I thought she was my projection. I didn't--" A breath strangles in Cobb's lungs. "I didn't want her to hurt you again."

"She's from my subconscious." Arthur still doesn't turn around.

Bewilderment flickers across Cobb's face. "What?" Incredulity grows by the second. It's close to bordering alarm. _"Why?"_

Arthur closes his eyes. He counts measured breaths like Mal taught him. Back when Arthur was no better than a feral animal pretending to be a functioning human being. After three more breaths, Arthur looks at the other man.

"You're not the only that misses her, Dom." Arthur's voice serrates at the edges. The volume raises with each word. He tries to keep the muzzle clasped on. It's terrifying how remnants of his past self still lurk inside. That boy who didn't give a damn about swearing at homophobes, and screamed at the skies in a middle-of-nowhere town. "You're not the only one who fucking feels guilty about what happened."

Cobb's expression turns crestfallen. "Arthur, no-" Distress smothers his exhale. A hand paints abstract shapes in the air. "What happened with Mal isn't your fault."

"I should've--" Arthur shakes his head. Dark eyes narrow into a piercing glare. Anger contorts his face. "I should've seen the fucking signs. I should've seen _something_ before she-- she did _that-_ " His voice chokes into oblivion.

Arthur can tell Ariadne and few others that Mal passed away in a stoic, objective tone. But when it's Cobb, Professor Miles, or even Phillipa and James-- Arthur's overwhelmed by heartache. Raw grief festers as poorly sutured wounds. It's a miracle Arthur keeps his voice light around the children when they carry their mother's eyes.

"She was always there for me. And so were you." Hands clench at Arthur's sides. Blunt nails dig crescent moons into his palms. " _But I couldn't do anything._ Not even for your kids."

"Arthur, that's not true." Cobb takes a step closer. "You've always been there for our family. Hell--" Fractures pry apart Cobb's voice. "Arthur, you're a part of our family. If it wasn't for you believing in me with the Fischer job, and fighting so damned hard, I wouldn't have returned to James and Phillipa." Eyes softening, Cobb places a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "They love you so much, Arthur. Just like Mal did."

Running water sinks down the drain. Along with few loose strands of Mal's dark hair. Arthur blinks through tears. Seeing a projection of Mal in the bathtub is far kinder than Mal on the asphalt street. Glassy eyes. Red everywhere--

No. Not like that. Please.

Arthur doesn't want to remember her like that.

Desperately, Arthur clings onto memories of Mal lying beside him on the scaffold tower, beaming in delight when Arthur shows what Cobb taught him. Mal whispers, _"This one's for you,_ " as she points at a constellation not in any text book. She paints the stars. Cobb and Arthur draw the lines.

Mal possessed the bright, carefree spirit of his childhood best friend Wendy. Arthur deeply loves his late mother even with her faults. But Mal was more nurturing, more protective.

She never turned a blind eye. Not even after learning about Neil McCormick's story. When Mal promised, _"No man will ever be cruel to you again,"_ Arthur believed her.

A friend. A sister. A mother. A guardian.

Biting back a sob, Arthur confesses, "I miss her so much, Dom."

"I do too." Cobb's hand moves to the back of Arthur's neck. He brings their foreheads together. "But it's not your fault. None of this has ever been your fault." His fingers curl into dark hair. "And-" Cobb draws in a slow breath. "Maybe I'm not the one to talk, since I've kept a projection of Mal for so long. But Arthur-- you need to let her go."

"I don't know how."

The water keeps running.

Quieter, Arthur adds, "But I want to. She shouldn't stay here. Not in this place."

Cobb looks around to survey the unfamiliar environment. "Where are we?"

Arthur doesn't look at him.

"Neil-"

 _"Don't,"_ Arthur cuts in sharply. "Don't call me that." After a barely audible inhale, he adds in a whisper, "Please."

"I'm sorry," Cobb apologizes softly. Worry and apprehension grow tenfold when Arthur avoids eye contact. "What happened here?"

The Point Man looks past Cobb's shoulder. Arthur's intense gaze remains fixed on an invisible point. "Nothing." Tears burn in his eyes. Arthur refuses to acknowledge them. Just like how he's desperate to erase what happened within these walls.

"Arthur, look at me."

Just before a tear falls, Arthur closes his eyes. He exercises the same breathing technique again. Slow inhale. Slower exhale. But right now, overly focusing on breathing backfires. The tears don't recede. At least, no sob claws its way out. Arthur opens his eyes to look at Cobb.

When blues meet browns, Cobb already finds the hideous answer to a dreadful question. His own tears emerge. In quiet horror, the Extractor hopes that he's wrong. "What happened in this bathroom?"

"Nothing," Arthur states with unwavering conviction. A steel edge hardens his voice. It's hard to tell who Arthur's trying to persuade: Cobb or himself. "Nothing happened here."

Cobb holds his stare.

Arthur stares right back.

When Cobb's about to say something, a violent bang slams on the door. The bathroom door rattles. A knife spitting venom attacks the silver hook lock. Even before Cobb has a chance to turn around, the monster on the other side barks out vile words.

And the one word that's repeated over and over and over.

_("--SLUT!")_

While listening to the savage tirade, Cobb stares at Arthur. A painful realization dawns on Cobb. Horror of unspeakable nature manifests into physical nausea. It churns sickeningly in his guts, and corrodes the man's insides.

Abruptly, Cobb's gaze flicker elsewhere. Silent terror surfaces on the Extractor's face. He's not looking at Arthur. He's looking past him.

Arthur fires the gun at Cobb.

As Cobb collapses from the Kick, Arthur catches him. Arthur lays Cobb down with care, then stands up. He doesn't face the mirror directly. But from his peripheral, Arthur sees a young boy. Thin. Pale. Pierced ears. Messy dark hair. Blood cascading down, staining his clothes, an open gash on his left temple.

Arthur and the boy share the same haunted eyes.

Colored contacts begin to melt away, and reveal the buried natural blue--

Gun against his head, Arthur pulls the trigger.

* * *

Arthur opens his eyes.

He fights the urge to hunt down a mirror, and check to see the colored contacts are in place.

Although Cobb woke up first, he still reclines back in the chair. The man stares at nothing. Quiet anguish and grief stricken Cobbs' face. In silence, Arthur disconnects the PASIV. The atmosphere grows heavier with each passing second.

Cobb sits up with shoulders falling. "Are you going to tell Eames?"

Arthur freezes. The wires and cords feel like lead weights in his hands. He forgets how to move. How to speak. How to breathe. The vast warehouse is unnervingly silent. Arthur strains to listen for the distant docks. Perhaps the sound of the ocean. But when he swallows hard, Arthur only hears faint firecrackers pop between his ears.

"No," Arthur finally answers. It takes a great deal of willpower to keep his voice steady. The man goes on with gathering the materials. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Never," Cobb promises. He stands beside Arthur. "It's not my place to tell."

Arthur stares at the wires in his hands. He should finish packing up. But phantom tremors creep down his arms until reaching his fingers.

Cobb turns Arthur towards him, and pulls the man into an embrace. Arthur still doesn't meet his eyes. Cobb holds Arthur so tightly that his frame aches. The cold silence is disrupted by Cobb's strained sobs. Arthur doesn't have it in him to make a sound over his trauma. Every sob, every scream, every plea has been burned out of him. Those sounds died in that bathroom years ago.

It's why he remained silent while holding Brian in Coach's old living room. Even now, Arthur hears echoes of Brian's heartwrenching sobs. Almost like a wounded animal on its last lung. That noise shouldn't exist inside Arthur anymore.

But in this moment, Arthur hears those sounds escaping his vocal chords. As Arthur listens to this ugly pain, he realizes Mal and Eames have heard this. Now even Cobb.

Shame and guilt burn Arthur alive. This should only haunt him. Not the people he loves.

The mess of wires and cords fall on the ground. Arthur wraps his arms around Cobb. He buries his face into the man's neck and shoulder. Tears held back for decades spill over. Arthur grips the back of Cobb's shirt. Fabric strains under his fingers. Terrified questions threaten to break free.

_"Are you disgusted by me?"_

_"Should I disappear?"_

_"Do you still love me?"_

Even when Arthur can't voice the questions out loud, Cobb hears him. Cobb gives an answer with a hand on the back of Arthur's neck. It's the same protective, kind gesture, since days when Arthur's piercings were still fading, and he was learning how to match neckties with suits.

The embrace doesn't break.

* * *

"Why do you leave?"

The question weighs heavily in the air. Even when the city's cacophony rages on at night, the inquiry rings louder. It's not uncommon for them to share easy conversation after sex. Sometimes, it's about work. The people in their lives. Places they've been, or want to visit. A random film they caught a few minutes of.

But this is a question Eames never asks.

Until now.

Arthur will wait to leave in the morning. But tonight, he's already scrambling to get out of bed.

Sitting up, Eames watches the man. He's grown well-acquainted with Arthur's body language over the years. What bewilders Eames is that he doesn't see hints of repressed loathing, or seething resentment. 

He only sees fear.

Eames pulls on some clothes. A few buttons close askew. Eames approaches the Point Man.

"Arthur."

No one should ever say his name so softly, so kindly. It's not something Arthur deserves. There's a tremor in Arthur's hands as he tries pulling on his belt. Eames touches his wrist. Arthur locks an inhale inside. His gaze traces the curve of Eames' clavicle. Silence draws on. There's at least half a dozen ways Arthur can escape this room, this building, this city, this country, even this continent.

When Arthur's gaze raises higher, he sees how drained Eames is. Yet something else burns fiercer in those eyes. Hope. Love. A promise.

Guilt eviscerates Arthur's insides. Blood floods exhausted lungs. At this rate, Arthur isn't the only one who will drown. It's clear that Eames isn't going to give up on Arthur. The man has been reaching his hand into the fire for years. He accepts being burned if that's what it takes to hold Arthur.

Early rigor mortis sets into Arthur's body. He tries to measure his breathing. The numbers choke in the back of his throat. An unfinished necktie slips away from Arthur's shirt collar. The black silk falls. Swallowing down tears, Arthur finally relents, and gives an answer.

"If I don't leave, then I'll want to stay."

In stunned silence, Eames stares. Confusion gives way to relief. Eames takes Arthur's hand into his. "I want you to stay." He feels the trembling grow in Arthur's hand. Even after all the chaotic, life-threatening jobs they've taken on, Eames has never seen Arthur so shaken. "What are you scared of?"

"I'm terrified of this," Arthur confesses breathlessly. "You. Me. Everything here." He jabs a finger towards Eames, then himself, then gestures to the space between them. "I'm terrified of us. Just like how I'm fucking terrified of hotel rooms too many stories high, and bathrooms with broken locks--"

Arthur stops. He can't reveal anymore fears: baseball fields, amber shampoo bottles, polaroid cameras, rainbow cereal, a boy named Neil, forgetting the color of Mal's eyes, and the harsh realization that maybe love isn't enough.

Because anyone you love can take their own life.

Eames tries composing the sparse fragments given to him. These aren't all the jigsaw pieces. But he gets an idea of what part of the completed picture might be. Eames' eyes simmer with anguish. "I won't leave you like Mal."

Shaking his head, Arthur steps back. "I don't hold it against her. My god- She--" An inhale feels like chewing on broken glass. "Mal was in pain. _So much pain._ And I never knew how to-- how to help her hurt less."

Arthur's voice runs coarse with grief. It's an ocean where the tide continually crashes in. There's no reprieve from mourning. Arthur refuses to delete any of Mal's remaining voicemail messages. The color of her eyes. The sound of her voice. Arthur doesn't want them to disappear like photographs developing in reverse. In a whisper, another secret escapes.

"I don't know if I can stand to lose someone like that again."

Mal taking her own life recolored Arthur's perspective on death, existence, love, everything. He tries to love less, feel less while thinking it'll hurt less when Ariadne swallows a million pills, Cobb lays down on railroad tracks, Yusuf runs the engine in a closed space, and Eames falls into the sea.

But Arthur's heart betrays him. Arthur hugs Ariadne tightly for goodbyes, even if there's a scheduled meeting the next day. He surprises Yusuf with his favorite coffee during late work nights, and they laugh together until sunrise. Arthur stares at Cobb's back in silent heartache, as if Arthur's already mourning the man while he's still alive. Invisible tears burn Arthur's eyes when he fixes Eames' necktie, and wonders how many more times he'll have the chance to see that soft smile.

"Or--" Arthur turns his head towards the bathroom door. "Haunt you in the way Cobb's haunted. Everyday. And for me-" A hand clenches at his side. It doesn't cease to shake. Arthur's body screams to be clawed at. "It's not even anything to do with Dreamshare. Eames, there's--" Arthur's hand hovers over his chest. " _There's something inside me._ If I stay, it's not just me staying. It's whatever's inside of me. I can't put you through that."

Eames stares. He doesn't bother with drying his own tears. Gently, Eames reaches out to wipe Arthur's damp face. His thumb brushes over a cheek bone.

"Arthur, I love you." Eames keeps his gaze on the man. Tears brim the wavering blue-greens. But the light of love in Eames' eyes doesn't fade. "All of you."

For the first time, Eames gives those words. Arthur never dared to dream of it. A love confession should bring warmth. But heart shrapnel plunges into freezing waters. Blinking back tears, Arthur shakes his head.

"You don't want to love me, Eames. Once you know--" Arthur swallows hard. His jaw tightens. He can't say it. He won't.

"Arthur." Eames takes a step forward. "There's nothing you could've done that would make me love you any less."

"It's not just what I did." Arthur looks out the window. A tired smile surfaces even though he doesn't know why. He's already giving away too much. But Arthur falls into the habit of tracing the scar on his temple. "It's what was done to me."

The bathroom is just one jigsaw piece to the greater fucked up puzzle.

The baseball field always carrying the scent of summer. 

The kitchen floor with a shattered kaleidoscope of colorful cereal.

The nightstand drawer holding old polaroids.

The house where two boys lost their bodies.

Arthur can change his name. His eye color. His attire. His speech. His behavior. Arthur can change every damned thing--

But nothing will erase what happened.

Eames hasn't taken his eyes off Arthur. As a Forger, Eames studies people for a living. He gathers clues, and pieces them together to understand who they are. It goes beyond mirroring speech patterns and body language. Eames seeks to learn why people behave the way they behave. The longer Eames stares at Arthur, and replays tonight, past nights, endless moments together-- the more acidic horror swells inside.

Slowly, it mutates into fury. So powerful, so heinous that Eames is nearly blinded in red. But the rage recedes. For now. 

What matters most is being here with Arthur.

Eames takes one last step closer. Their foreheads touch. "Stay." His voice barely rises above a whisper. "Stay, Arthur. Let me prove to you just how bloody stubborn I am. Because I'm ridiculously, fucking unconditionally in love with you." Eames rests a hand on the side of Arthur's neck. It shifts to cradle the man's jaw with care. "Show me what you want when you're ready. Or don't show me. That's okay." With soft eyes, Eames smiles. "You don't need to reopen old wounds for me. I'm still going to be right here with you, love."

After living in a body raw with third-degree burns, kindness scorches Arthur. So does compassion, empathy, and everything else Eames gives.

When Arthur draws away from the embrace, Eames' heart falls through the ground.

Arthur shakes his head. He touches Eames' cheek. "I'm not going," he reassures quietly. "Can you give me a second?"

Nodding, Eames dries another tear. Arthur lightly kisses Eames' hand, then walks into the bathroom. The door stays open. Eames blinks in surprise when Arthur raises a hand to his face. From his vantage point, Eames can't see much else. His curiosity grows as Arthur returns to him.

Arthur's hand hovers over his eyes. The tremor is still there. And the hand doesn't stop another falling tear. Heartache pierces Eames in newfound ways. The armor Arthur's worn for so long has grafted onto his body. Eames watches Arthur forcefully ripping the metal fragments away.

Slowly, Arthur lowers his hand.

Striking, haunted, bright blues stare at Eames.

"I love you," Arthur says even as his voice cracks. Each tear flays him alive. But he's tired of fighting against vulnerability, emotions, his own heart. So, Arthur lets the tears fall. "I'm sorry for leaving every morning. You always deserved better, and I swear, I'm going to give that to you. Fear won't win. Not anymore." Arthur opens his hand. Air bites at the crescent moons broken into his palm. The tremor's shockwaves reach his heart. "I love you, Eames. I love you so damned much."

The last of this god awful, heavy armor crashes down. Arthur feels rising words that Neil has screamed all along. The same words that guide him onto the subway, even while bloody and beaten. The same words that accept Mal and Cobb's hands, Ariadne's head on his shoulder, Yusuf's cups of tea, Eames' lips brushing softly. The same words that reject premonitions about Arthur's life ending in a bathtub. With all his heart, Arthur declares:

"I want to stay."

Love and pride swell in Eames' heart. Warmth overflows to leave him breathless. Even with grief, fear and pain clouding those blue eyes, Eames sees light shining through fiercely. Eames' growing smile reaches his eyes.

When Eames smiles at him like that, Arthur can't resist a laugh. Joy bursts with the ferocity of a blazing wildfire. Surging in for a kiss, Arthur takes Eames' face in his hands. Arthur nearly apologizes for the taste of his tears, for the jagged edges of his sadness. But Eames doesn't shy away from the salt or the sharpness. He kisses Arthur deeper, harder. Arthur returns the kiss with matched yearning. Chests pressing flush, they feel the elated, wild rhythm of each other's hearts. Sobs and laughter stifle between their lips. 

"I love you too, darling." Eames seals the words against the corner of Arthur's mouth.

Everything feels raw and alive. Together, they catch their breaths. Racing hearts don't slow down. After a soft kiss, Arthur reaches for Eames' hand. He guides those fingers to his temple. When Eames traces the scar, Arthur exhales slowly. And when Eames' kisses the mark, Arthur lets himself cry.

Laughter chases after the tears.

* * *

Today, Mal's eyes shine too vibrantly to match with any existing hue. The goldenrod yellow dress billows in the air. Arthur holds Mal tightly. He gives her every tear, every sob. In her ear, Arthur whispers what he's always wanted to say. Words of profound gratitude. Words of unconditional love.

As the ocean breeze brushes Mal's hair, Arthur watches the strands dissolve into stardust. Just like the rest of her body. Brilliant specks flicker with iridescence. The radiance from Mal reaches inside Arthur. Or maybe it's been inside of him all this time. Mal's soft smile brushes across Arthur's cheek.

Arthur opens his arms. As the last of stardust drifts away, Arthur's veins still burn with liquid gold. He watches the starry hurricane rise into the night sky.

When Arthur wakes up, he welcomes the warmth of tears. The man reaches for his phone. After a quiet, deep breath, Arthur deletes every left behind voicemail. He sets the phone away. Gravity beckons his body towards Eames. While still asleep, Eames holds Arthur closer. Arthur presses a kiss to the man's shoulder. Listening to the sound of their shared breathing, Arthur closes his eyes.

* * *

Arthur is still here.

In the kitchen. Making breakfast. He's in loose joggers, and one of Eames' t-shirts. The overlarge white shirt hangs on Arthur's frame. His hair isn't even styled back in its usual austere manner. The unraveled locks are a gorgeous mess of dark waves. 

Eames half-expects a tear to form in the space-time continuum. No matter what hour of the day, or what the situation may be, Arthur dresses professionally. But this morning, Arthur doesn't even have a necktie on.

Pancakes are alright. Eames will gratefully eat pancakes if they're served for breakfast. Or even waffles. However he's always preferred French toast most. It's an insignificant detail that Eames rarely shares.

Arthur sets another piece of French toast on the growing stack.

In quiet awe, Eames stares. "You're here."

"I am," Arthur states simply. Or so it sounds. Lack of being startled hints at Arthur knowing Eames has been watching him.

The frying pan sizzles. After jostling it around a bit, Arthur places the spatula down. He turns to face Eames. Those sterling blue eyes still take Eames' breath away.

"I can't tell you about what happened." Arthur stares steadily. But for a flickering moment, there's a subtle wavering in his eyes. "Not yet. And maybe not for a very long time." Arthur heaves a slow exhale. "Is that okay?"

Moving closer, Eames nods. "Tell me at your own pace."

Arthur's gaze softens. "Thank you." He smooths out the wrinkles in Eames' shirt. "But I can tell you one thing to start with. My name. The one I was born with."

Shock widens Eames' eyes. Of all things Arthur can share with him, Eames never expected this. The weight of such a reveal is never to be taken lightly. Especially amongst people in their line of work. Eames brushes Arthur's bangs back in silent encouragement.

"Neil." And Arthur leaves it at that. No last name. Not for now. After a shaky breath, Arthur says quieter, "But please don't call me that name."

Eames takes the man's face in his hands. "Thank you, Arthur." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It brightens the adoring blue-greens. "I still like calling you _'darling'_ the most."

Arthur's attempt at an exasperated sigh fails terribly. Leaning into Eames' touch, Arthur smiles against the warm palm. Eames tilts Arthur's face towards him for another kiss. Arthur returns it with a soft sigh.

Humming, Eames caresses his partner's side. "Did you already have some French toast?"

Arthur blinks. "No, not yet."

"Because you taste quite sweet. I wasn't sure if it was the cinnamon, or you-"

With an incoherent shout, Arthur turns to leave. Eames catches the man in his arms. A fit of laughter shakes the Forger. Arthur may pass out from how fiercely he's blushing. Even when Arthur lightly punches Eames in the arm, more laughter spills out.

"My god!" Eames' stomach aches. His hand runs through Arthur's hair. "I've never seen you so red like this. How absolutely adorable."

"Is-- is this what you're going to be like?!" Arthur's flustered beyond belief. The blush cascades down his neck. A mess of bangs fall into his scowl. "You sonuva-"

Arthur swears up a storm. Eames holds him closer. There's easily a dozen ways Arthur can break out of Eames' arms. But he only leans more into his partner's warmth. Arthur rests his face in the curve of Eames' neck and shoulder.

"Darling."

"Mmhm?" Arthur nuzzles against warm skin.

"Do you like your French toast extra crispy?"

"What?" Arthur looks over at the stove. His eyes widen once seeing a slice of toast on the verge of being charred. "Damnit, Eames." Quickly, he turns off the stove.

Eames laughs loud and bright. The sound rings warmly through the kitchen. "What are you blaming me for?" Eames feigns innocence. With his hands on Arthur's hips, Eames rests his chin on the man's shoulder.

"For being a distraction."

"Well, love-" Eames' arm circle around his partner's waist. "How about we come back to this later? Let me distract you some more in the bedroom."

Before Arthur can let out a word of protest, Eames kisses him. Arthur doesn't fight the impulse to smile. Or to wrap his arms around this ridiculous, beautiful, kindhearted man. The kiss breaks when Arthur's suddenly lifted. As Eames carries him to bed, Arthur begins to remember the sound of his own laughter.

The bathroom with its metal hook lock, and amber shampoo bottle still lives insides of Arthur. So does what lurks on the other side of that bathroom door. And the glimpse of a haunted boy in the mirror.

But as Arthur lays back on soft sheets, tenderness washes over his body, and daylight casts Eames' contour in gold--

Arthur sees reasons to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ♡ This is a story I've wanted to write for years. Inception and Mysterious Skin are deeply close to my heart. Through writing, I'm trying to learn how to live with grief, fear and ghosts. And to prove to myself that hope, courage, joy and love burn stronger than any darkness. If any of that reaches a reader, I'm grateful. It truly makes my day. I appreciate everyone supporting my writing. Any kudos, comments and such are always loved. Please stay safe, and take care ♡♡
> 
> REFERENCES / INSPIRATION:  
> \-- Fic title: ['On the Nature of Daylight' (orchestral version) - Max Richter](https://youtu.be/I9l76ownp5Y)


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